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July 15th, 2005 was another night at the Bluesfest where I was granted exposure to the music of someone I had previously only heard of, and in an unusual twist I actually enjoyed it.
But before we get to Kid Rock (yes, that Kid Rock), allow me to introduce to you Ottawa’s premiere Bluesman, the capital city’s pentatonic king, the Italian Rapscallion*, the globetrotting axe-slinging Tony D, personal friend of mine and a heckuva nice fella besides.
From the very beginning of the Ottawa Bluesfest Tony has been offered primo slots at the fest – often even headlining the final night – such is his respect, at least amongst local bookers. On this night in particular Tony was appearing on the Grassroots Stage in a non-headlining slot on not the last night of the festival. I don’t know if this marked a downgrade of his status (again, at least amongst local bookers) or if was an indication of the exponential growth of the festival and it’s big-name drawing power, but all of that fell by the wayside as I stood there soaking up Tony’s lifetime of experience in twelve bars. Long past getting all the Stevie Ray and Eric Clapton riffs down, two decades of touring (with a smattering of flamenco training thrown in) seasoned Tony’s playing into some seriously good, honest, and true electric blues and I ate it up with a mile-wide smile on my face.
Honest and truly, Tony D is a Canadian musical gem and he should be treated as such. The next time you get the chance to go see him play do yourself the favour. I await your thanks.
Then of course it was to the main stage with me for the Kid Rock experience, which was a bit of an eye opener. What little I knew of him came from a Playboy 20 Questions article I had read in which he came off as a plain old regular lower-class guy who got lucky along the way, and of course that he’s a dyed-in-the-wool Republican which seems to be the redneck prerogative.
I actually went straight to the photo pit (as was my habit that year) where I and my clearly inferior camera were physically ejected by Kid’s own burly security, who finished their job with an actual kick in my back. Someone should have told them that up here in Canadakistan a simple, “Excuse me sir, we’d prefer it if you didn’t take any pictures and left the photo pit immediately” always works. I did manage to click three shots though, and getting kicked out of there helped to maximize my drinking time, which I took advantage of to an admirable degree.
I can understand their confusion though, as Mr. Rock stood in front of a giant American Flag backdrop throughout his set. All-in-all, I took this as my introduction to a style of music called (by me, anyway) Trailer Park Rock, and it should surprise no one that KR is the grand poo-bah of the genre. What surprised me was just how much he rocked it and how much fun it was (though the beer helped, as it always does).
When he pulled out a cover of The Theme From The Dukes Of Hazzard it occurred to me just how big a demographic Trailer Park Rock must have. That entire show was an homage to trailer parks everywhere and the song was their anthem. Kid played more than his fair share of covers – all of it standard American FM rock fare – with what I assume must be a few of his tunes thrown in. It was like listening to the three-chord embodiment of a Ford150 with oversized tires and chrome testicles, and he somehow sucked me right in, my hands raised in southern solidarity. It was fun, though in the morning it felt pretty icky. I invite your imagination to elaborate on the analogy, for I am too prudish to do it for you.
What followed was a beautiful drunken walk along the starlit Rideau Canal where I smooched m’lady for the first time. I’d love to be able to thank Tony D for that, or even the good folks at Molson, but I suspect Kid Rock and his stop-thinkin’-and-keep-partyin’ attitude deserves the credit.
*Tony is hardly a rapscallion – in fact he’s one of the least mischievous people I know – but it’s all I could come up with. I almost went with “scallion” based solely on the fact that Tony insists that the true Italian way is to cook with either garlic or onions and never both, making him as close to a “friend of the scallion” as one could imagine. But really, “the Italian Rapscallion” just scans better. Which just goes to show you that as much as these things appear to be stream-of-consciousness keyboard fodder, I do actually think about them a little.
Which in retrospect will certainly be my downfall. I think, therefore I bore.
Todd Man Out 